


Occupational Hazard

by Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)



Category: Casino Royale (2006)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-16
Updated: 2012-02-16
Packaged: 2017-10-31 06:47:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/341147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrine/pseuds/Sandrine%20Shaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Flirtation, innuendo, sexual harassment – somewhere, there's a line being crossed. A series of loosely related interaction between Bond and Villiers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Occupational Hazard

The display on the phone tells Villiers that it's Bond calling. Bond, who should be in his hotel room in Munich awaiting new instructions, but is really in Amsterdam, according to his latest credit card booking. 

Villiers takes a deep breath before he picks up the receiver and steels himself for whatever Bond wants this time. Bond calls with annoying regularity to have him check up people, find out security codes, put him through to M, doctors and explosive experts, and – one memorable time – to order a pizza. Depending on the relevance and gravity of the situation, Villiers either complies without wasting time for idle chit-chat, puts Bond on hold for twenty minutes, or just hangs up on him. 

The thing is – even though they interact a surprising amount, they don't _talk_. Ever. 

For all Bond cares, Villiers is a robot in a suit who deserves no more attention than the inventory. Villiers for his part doesn't want to have any more contact with M's elite agents than what is absolutely necessary. He doesn't know Bond, and what little he knows _of_ him, he doesn't like. He's perfectly happy with their interaction as it is.

That is, until Bond changes the rules of a game Villiers didn't even know they were playing.

"I'm sending you a couple of pictures. Can you run them through the computer for me," Bond says in lieu of a greeting.

While Villiers is waiting for the transmission from Bond's cell phone to finish, he asks: "What are you doing in Amsterdam, anyway? You were supposed to wait for M to give you further details—" He's cut off before he can even finish the sentence. 

"I have all the details I need. Or I will, when you give me the intel I asked you about."

Villiers grinds his teeth. Sometimes, being polite and not just slamming the phone down with a "fuck you" is the hardest part of his job. "May I remind you that I'm M's assistant, not yours?" But he does what Bond asks, if only because his employer appreciates when he gives her agents information that might keep them alive.

On the other end of the line, Bond chuckles, and Villiers can just about imagine him, standing at the bar of a nightclub, a vodka martini in his hand and a glamorous, yet disposable beauty hanging on his arm. 

"Trust me, I know that. And I assure you that you'd find working under me a lot more pleasurable than working for M." There's a small pause, and then the humour is gone from his voice, and it's back to business. "Transmission received. Thanks." 

He cuts the line before Villiers can respond. Shaking his head in exasperation, he puts down the phone and gets back to the report he was reading before Bond interrupted him. It takes him three pages until he realizes that Bond was flirting with him.

* * *

He returns to his office one afternoon to find Bond sprawled in his chair as if he belongs there, his fingers idly sliding over the keyboard of Villiers' notebook. He makes a mental note to check the file history, to find out what Bond might have seen, and change the passwords.

As he approaches, Bond looks up and smiles. "I like your workplace. Maybe I'll just try your job, for a change. Do you think I could handle it?"

"Perhaps you'd handle it better than _your_ job," Villiers retorts. He reaches over and snaps the lid of the notebook shut, almost squashing Bond's fingers.

"Ouch." He's not sure whether Bond's deadpan response is a reaction to the unveiled dig at his abilities to handle his missions smoothly, or to his bruised fingertips. Either way, Bond stands up and relinquishes his desk to him. 

Villiers sits and re-opens the laptop, expecting today's repartee to be over, but Bond lingers. He hopes Bond will just go away and let him do his work, but it seems the other man is in no hurry to leave. Finally, exasperated, Villiers sits back and looks at Bond.

There's an amused smile tugging at the corners of Bond's lips, which Villiers tells himself he does not find attractive. 

"Desk jobs never held much appeal for me. Not that I don't think desks have their uses." He trails his fingers over the desk's surface, almost caressing, and gives Villiers a look that leaves very little room for interpretation. 

Before he can gather his wits, Bond is sauntering out of the room.

He doesn't get any work done for the rest of the day because every time he so much as looks at the smooth wooden surface of his desk, his brain provides a seemingly endless supply of mental images of being sprawled across the desk with Bond stretched out above him.

* * *

When Bond has M fly out to a crime scene, Villiers tags along. There are weird patterns on the floor which might or might not mean something, as one of the forensics experts explains to him. He crouches down to have a closer look, trying to remember if the pattern seems familiar, when someone beside him clears their throat.

Villiers looks up to Bond, who's standing a lot closer than he should be. 

"You don't seem afraid to get your suit dirty. I like that," Bond comments offhandedly, indicating towards where Villiers is kneeling on the filthy ground. "See anything you like?"

Considering that Villiers practically has Bond's crotch in his face, and that those jeans are really awfully tight, the honest answer would be a definite yes, but he is pretty sure that Bond knows that without being explicitly told. Bond has been walking the fine line between flirtation and sexual harassment for a while now, and Villiers tries very hard to mind. He pushes himself up and dusts his pants off. 

"It would be more appropriate to exchange that sort of innuendo with some leggy blonde, I should think." He congratulates himself on his nonchalant tone.

"Perhaps. But where would be the fun in that?" Bond waits just long enough that it counts as a dramatic pause before he adds, "Besides, your legs are perfectly adequate."

Bond has the nerve to wink at him and Villiers, despite himself, finds himself blushing.

* * *

"Stop flirting with my assistant," M tells Bond sternly. "He's the best I've ever had. I don't want to have to replace him just because you've compromised his loyalty."

"Replace him with whom?" Bond asks, amused. "A leggy blonde?"

"How about a seventy-year-old ex-MI5? I'm sure even you have limits, Bond, and I can assure you that I'm fully prepared to find them."

"I'm sure you could," he replies noncommittally. Then, suddenly, he smiles. "Best you've ever had, hmm? Somehow, that doesn't give me much incentive to stay away."

M shoots him a dirty look and walks away.

* * *

Bond barges into the room in what seems like a deliberate show of bad mood and even worse manners. He flings the door open and kicks it shut behind himself with a bang. Villiers barely looks up, not even when Bond announces without preliminaries, "I need to speak to your boss."

"M is not available at the moment," Villiers replies calmly. And even if it takes all the willpower he possesses to keep his eyes glued to the file he's studying, he refuses to let Bond get a rise out of him.

"She will be, for me." Arrogant as ever.

Villiers' voice takes a clipped edge. "She's not available _for anyone_. No exceptions." 

He might not actually be looking at Bond, but he is still following his every move out of the corner of his eye and when he realizes that Bond is on his way to the door that leads to M's office, Villiers is out of his chair and blocking Bond's path in one smooth motion.

Bond takes one further step towards him and brings them chest to chest, close enough that they're almost touching. Villiers ignores his instincts that tell him to step aside because if Bond wants to get in the room, he will get in. Bond looks straight at him – actually, he looks up at him, but even though the few inches he has on Bond should give him at least a physical advantage, he doesn't feel it – and Bond's voice when he speaks is hard as diamonds: "There are one-hundred and thirty-six ways for me to get past you. Ninety-three, if you don't count the ones that leave you dead or permanently incapacitated. Even if I stay clear of the ones that result in any broken bones, that is still thirty-eight possible ways for me to get through you and to this door." His tone has changed during his speech, smoother now, more velvety; and even though he's talking of violence and quite possibly torture, he almost sounds seductive. 

He leans closer yet – too close – and Villiers half-expects Bond to try and distract him with a kiss. The sad thing is that even though he thinks he can see where this is going, he knows it will probably work. 

Bond seems to read his mind, because he adds, very softly, with his mouth almost directly at Villiers' ear: "And you couldn't do a thing about it."

Villiers has to struggle to keep his eyes open and hold Bond's impossibly blue-eyed gaze. His mind may be saying 'Yes, please, _now_ ,' and at least part of his body is in agreement with that, but he refuses to give an inch. Not if he can help it.

And then, suddenly, Bond steps back and the tension bristling between them is abruptly lifted. Villiers is not so far in denial to mistake the rush of air he feels in his lungs for relief. 

Bond smiles smoothly, as if this standoff never happened. "Or, of course, I could ask you to make an appointment for me. Sometime soon, in thirty minutes perhaps?"

Taking a deep breath, Villiers tries to collect himself. "Sure," he hears himself saying, and even as the word slips out and Bond's smile turns into a triumphant smirk, he realizes that he's been played.

* * *

"You've broken into my home – _again_ , I should add, despite the fact that I've explicitly told you not to – to tell me you need to join some extravagant playboy on his yacht to get access to the information about Dacout?" M gives him a half-quizzical, half-suspicious look. "Where's the catch? It's not like you to ask me for _permission_."

"I think the informant might be more inclined to trust me if I fit in with the scene and turned up in company."

"Stop beating around the bush, Bond."

The reprimand seems to amuse Bond, because all it does is make him smile. "I'd like to take your secretary."

"Absolutely not," M cuts the suggestion off in a sharp voice. "Villiers is not a field agent."

Bond shoots her a scornful look. "You gave me an _accountant_ on the mission to nail Le Chiffre." He says it like it doesn't mean anything. Like he was never emotionally invested in Vesper, and never handed in his resignation for her.

Even in the face of his cool nonchalance, M is unimpressed. "And she got killed for it."

"She was killed because of her betrayal."

"She was killed because she got involved with you," M counters pointedly.

The message is clear. Bond holds her gaze for a long moment, and then, finally, inclines his head ever so slightly. 

M verifies the wordless agreement with a warning. "I'd like my assistant back in one piece."

"Don't worry. I have no desire to see him broken, myself." Mentally, he adds, 'at least not beyond repair,' but if M hears the unspoken qualification or recognizes his statement for the half-truth it is, only the slight narrowing of her eyes hints at it.

* * *

The mission is uneventful. If Villiers didn't know better, he'd think the life of a double-0 agent was a lot less exciting than it was laid out to be.

He plays the role of Bond's boytoy as if he'd never done anything else in his entire life, leaning into every public touch and greedily responding to every possessive kiss. One of the undeniable advantages of this job is that there's no need to hide how much those kisses leave him breathless and weak-kneed and aching for more. In fact, it's what's expected of him. It's not exactly a far stretch of his acting abilities.

As soon as the door to their suite falls shut behind them, however, Bond keeps a polite, professional distance. There's none of the usual innuendo, no lingering touches, and whatever intimacy they have to pretend exists between them is replaced by collegial professionalism. 

Villiers pretends not to be disappointed.

* * *

It's a week later, and his life has returned to normal, when he comes home and immediately notices that something is wrong. Not that there's any actual evidence, on first glance: the door is properly locked, and as far as he can see in the dark, everything is in its place. But the strange, uncomfortable feeling of intrusion lingers.

When he switches on the lights, he's prepared to find his living room a mess, smashed furniture, obvious traces of breaking and entering. What he's not prepared for is to find Bond lounging lazily on his couch, a drink in his hand, watching Villiers in the doorway.

It takes him a moment to shake off the surprise. 

"What do you want?" he asks harshly, not willing to give Bond the satisfaction of seeing him protest about the intrusion into his home.

"We have unfinished business." Bond says this in a tone that leaves no room for argument; Villiers bristles with indignation that Bond thinks that it's up to him alone to decide how far they're going to take this _thing_ between them and when.

"I don't think we do," he replies tersely, concentrating on staying calm and aloof and in control, even when he can feel his heartbeat speeding up. "When you're done raiding my alcohol, feel free to leave."

He turns around to put his briefcase away and shrug off his suit jacket, and when he turns back, Bond is right there. 

"Are you sure?" Bond asks with a smile that says he knows exactly what the proximity is doing to Villiers.

And just like that, he's had _enough_. Enough of Bond's arrogance and his insolence, his assumptions and his bloody superiority. Enough of the innuendo and the unspoken promises and the professional distance, whenever it suits Bond. Enough of being manipulated and toyed with. "Screw you," he tells Bond, enjoying the small flicker of surprise on his face before he leans in and kisses Bond.

Bond's surprise doesn't last long. His fingers tangle in Villiers' hair and his tongue moves against his almost instantly. Bond reaches for his tie, skilful fingers loosening the knot without fumbling. 

Villiers breaks away, out of breath, and wonders – not for the first time – what the hell he's doing. "I don't even like you," he hears himself say, and mentally chides himself for it. It's such a silly, clichéd thing to say. When has _liking_ ever entered the equation?

Bond seems to think the same thing because he just grabs the loose ends of the tie and tugs him close again into a brief, deep kiss. The tie falls to the floor, and Bond tears at his shirt, not really bothering with the buttons. His fingers feel almost unbearably hot against Villiers' skin, and the steel-coloured gaze holds his own, not giving an inch. Only now does he realize what he'd been missing before, when the touches and kisses were merely play-acting. Being at the center of Bond's undivided attention is almost scary in its intensity. 

Perhaps it's unusual for his line of work, but he's never been all that fond of taking risks and placing himself in danger before. He's never been much of an adrenaline junkie, nor did he understand the kick others got out of it. But now Bond's pushing him backwards until his back hits the wall, he knows what it's like. He gets it. Because those hands, which are so deftly stripping him and sliding over his body, have killed and tortured, and it should be appalling to be touched by them; he should hesitate to surrender himself to someone like Bond. But it isn't, and he doesn't, and it makes no sense at all, and he couldn't care less.

* * *

It doesn't change anything.

He's still not sure whether he likes Bond most of the time, and he's fairly certain the sentiment is mutual.

Bond is still reckless and ruthless and sleeps with numerous beautiful, otherwise engaged women on his missions. More often than not, they wind up dead. If Bond cares, he certainly doesn't show it. He always comes back from his missions with a cool, controlled smile that seems unshakable. But later, when they're alone, he's rougher than usual. He leaves bruises on Villiers' body and his kisses have a sharp, coppery taste. 

He still acts like he owns the world, sprawling in the chair of M's office and telling Villiers to bring him a Martini without even looking at him, as if he was some errand boy. Villiers always hands him a glass of lukewarm, non-sparkling water or, if he's in a particularly magnanimous mood, a coffee. Bond gives him withering looks in reply but never complains, and M's lips give a little twitch. 

Even though M never says a word, Villiers is convinced that she knows. She probably knows more about him, Bond and everyone else who works with her, for her or against her than they know themselves. Villiers is pretty certain that she doesn't care, though, as long as his loyalty is still first and foremost to her. He continues to report every breach of protocol he notices Bond make. And there are many of them.

And if he puts a little extra effort in trying to keep Bond out of trouble and secure his safe return, no one is complaining.

End.


End file.
